Le Colonial by Kien Nguyen

solitude.
    “But, sir . . . up here it could be dangerous.”
    “Go back to your post,” snapped Pierre. “Even your captain would not use such tone to me.”
    His haughtiness found its aim. He could see the sailor’s muscular arms rippling in the dark and the flash of his teeth.
Good! Get angry,
he thought, and felt his own rage abate. Straightening his robe, Pierre walked away. The path to the stern felt wet and slippery under his bare feet.
    “I blame you, Petijean, for your men’s insubordination,” he muttered, his voice lost in the creaking of the spars. In a more grating tone he added, “That sailor should be flogged.”
    There wasn’t a cloud or a star to be seen in the sky, but the ocean was twinkling. When he looked over the rail, he thought he saw the reflection of his own shadow. The wind returned, as abrupt and powerful as he had anticipated, threatening to scrape him off the gunwale and into the watery pit. Pierre gripped the handrail, dizzy with fear, until he regained his balance. To be thrown overboard in front of the sailor he had just insulted would be more irony than he could bear. In one instant he would lose not only his life but also his work and his ambition. A thin laugh escaped his throat.
    All caution, he moved away, reaching the center of the deck by holding on to the rigging. The watchman had moved to the other side of the ship, invisible in the thick night. The wind cried again. This time, he heard a voice. The sniffing and words of entreaty were unmistakable.
    Pierre strained to listen. His hand clutched the crucifix around his neck. The cry seemed to be coming from the sails over his head. He looked up and saw a dark figure perched among the yards, booms, and ropes that connected to the main mast.
    He lifted his hand to his mouth. Nothing could have surprised him more. It was Henri, the novice François Gervaise had recruited in Marseille. How and when did he climb a post ten feet above the ground without being caught? The lad seemed too distraught to be aware that he had been discovered. The weeping that broke from him was piteous.
Mother . . . Mother . . .
was all Pierre could hear.
    The monsignor stood leaning against the mast. The first time he had encountered Henri, he was not impressed, mostly because of the novice’s age. He remembered feeling furious at François’s decision to bring one so young to a place as dangerous as Annam. Weakness and inexperience could pose a major threat to the mission’s survival. This evening’s discovery confirmed his apprehension. Still, the thought of Henri dangling while François slept, unaware of his novice’s plight, left him boiling with rage.
How irresponsible of that priest.
    He decided not to intervene. The first rule he had learned as an explorer was that upon encountering trouble between the natives, it was best to leave matters in the hands of God. The boy was François’s problem.
    Pierre turned and went back down to his cabin.
    After seven months at sea, François noticed a growing restlessness among the passengers and crew. Even in January, the temperature was unbearable. Each day, the tropical heat burned the deck and stripped the wood of its dark varnish. The sea was shimmering; all he could see was blue or orange, and as brilliant as the sun. And the billowing waves were relentless. They constantly tossed loads of seawater over the
Wanderer
’s deck, discouraging his explorations. With each knot the brigantines sailed, France and all of her familiar comforts receded farther into memory.
    In the heavy swells, the ships drifted. Their motion was directed by the wind and the ocean’s currents. Many of the missionaries had been struck with seasickness, including François. The acid from his stomach reached up his throat, spoiling every morsel of food he tried to swallow. Even the sea vapor, which he had once found so invigorating, made him ill. Every day, he covered himself in wet cloth and salted water. Every night, he